Without Words
by mia101
Summary: A series of oneshots showcasing B and B showing their love in unconventional ways. Rated "M" for later chapters.
1. Softly

_**A/N: hiiiiiiiiii. it's been so long! i can't remember the last time i posted something without my lovely counterpart. i'm currently working on a piece of longer, original fiction, but i missed y'all, and couldn't help but post this little fic. i'm thinking it will be a series of little oneshots with varying points of view, all centering around B and B showing their love rather than saying it. Am rating "M" for future smut, although this chapter has none. :) hope you all enjoy...**_

_**xoxo mia**_

**Softly, Without Words.**

I am out of my element. I know this. My kitchen is full of things I don't recognize and have never used, ingredients spread across the countertop. I have gone to three different stores to find everything on the list, and the curry has stained my shirt. Cursing under my breath, I make my way to the bedroom, and just as I've peeled off the dress shirt, I hear the bell.

"Dammit," I mutter, grabbing a t-shirt and tugging it quickly down. "I'm coming!"

She is waiting patiently on my front steps when I pull open the door, and she glances at my old FBI t-shirt and then at her own clothes. "I think I've overdressed. Where exactly are we going?"

I tug her inside, shaking my head. "We're staying in, Bones. I'm cooking."

She looks at me warily, although I'm not offended. I've certainly never considered myself a gourmet, although I can make a mean grilled cheese and my steaks are grilled to perfection. Truth is, unless I have Parker, I generally eat out most of my meals (generally with her) and seldom bother to cook only for myself.

She follows me back towards the kitchen, and I see her eyes widen as she takes in the spread on the counter. Shrugging her bag from her shoulder, she slips her coat down her slender arms and smiles. "Wow, Booth. That's quite an impressive array of ingredients."

I sigh, nodding, hands on my hips. "Let's hope I don't screw it up."

She cocks her head to the side, as if sizing me up for the job as she sits on a stool at the counter. "You want help?"

I shake my head firmly, setting a wine glass in front of her and filling it half-way with a pinot noir I've seen her drink several times at her house. "It's your birthday -- just sit."

She does as she's told, surprisingly, and takes a delicate sip of the wine, her tongue darting out before she lets out a satisfied sigh. It's hard not to be swept away by it, and I have to shake myself a little to turn away from her, glancing down at the cookbook open in front of me. When I'd asked her what she wanted to eat for her birthday she'd said Indian food, and, knowing nothing about it, I'd headed to the nearest bookstore. It had been harder to dig for a vegetarian cookbook, but I'd found one, scouring it for a recipe that had ingredients I knew she liked that I thought I could possible avoid screwing up royally.

Wiping my hands on a towel, I glance up at her from the cookbook. "Okay, it says to dry roast these seeds in a pan. Won't they burn?"

She smiles easily. "I imagine if you keep them moving they'll just toast lightly."

I consider this for a moment before setting a skillet on the stove. "Hmmm."

"Booth, really, we can go to a restaurant if –"

"Hey," I say, frustrated. "I can do this, Bones, okay? I can follow a recipe."

She nods seriously. "I know you can. I just didn't want you to have to go to any trouble."

Frowning, I look at her. "It isn't."

She looks surprised for a moment, and I realize that, as much as she's been taken to dinner on dates or by her publishers she probably hasn't had anyone cook for her in ages. Someone as independent and self-sufficient as Temperance Brennan _would _see struggling through a recipe as trouble. But it's her birthday, and I want her to feel special.

To me, she's always worth the effort.

I toss the cardamom pods, cumin and poppy seeds into the warm pan (all things that I've never seen before), stirring them lightly with a spoon, and she's right – after several moments, they start to lightly toast. Conversation flows easily between us, as it always does, but her eyes again widen when I turn off the stove as she sees the small marble bowl I pull out of the cupboard.

"You have a mortar and pestle?"

I look at her a bit sheepishly. "I bought it today. It says you need one in the recipe."

"You can buy these spices already ground, you know."

"It says it's more authentic this way," I insist, and she looks impressed. I feel a swell of pride, like I've been awarded some sort of prize and suddenly all the trips around town during rush hour seem well worth it.

"Let me help," she pesters. "At least let me grind the spices for you – that's not hard."

As much as I wanted her to be able to sit back and relax, I also recognize that isn't who this woman is. She's curious, she's active -- she's hands-on. And so I hand her my new mortar and pestle and watch for a moment as she carefully and skillfully begins to grind the now toasted seeds into a fine powder.

She glances up from her task. "Oh. Are you waiting for this? Am I taking too long?"

How do I explain to her that so often I'm content to just watch her? I've never known someone like Temperance Brennan, never met a woman so focused on whatever she's working on, whatever project is in front of her. Occasionally, when I'm in the mood to torture myself, I wonder what it would be like to have all that skill and attention focused on me, what it would feel like to be at the center of her universe.

"No, no, you're fine," I murmur, searching for a measuring cup to start the rice. "No hurry."

I busy myself for several minutes as she continues to mix the spices, and I pull the brick of tofu out of the fridge, setting it on a cutting board. It is pale and white, looking a lot like smooth cheese, and almost silky in texture. I have no idea what I'm doing.

She startles me with her laugh, and when I look at her, my breath catches at the sight of her lips pulling into a broad smile, her eyes sparkling. "Booth," she murmurs. "You bought tofu?"

I sigh, my knife hovering over the cutting board. "You like it," I say.

She looks amazed, and again, I am struck with the feeling that this is all worth it.

She pinches some of the spice between her fingers, testing its fineness, and smiles. "I suppose this means for your birthday I should learn how to cook steak, huh?"

I picture Bones going to that kind of trouble for me, how I would feel, and a warmth sweeps over me, something in my chest tingling, my stomach flipping a bit. I remember her making me macaroni and cheese, remember sitting down to her table and having her smile at me, how that had felt. For just a few moments, I'd dropped my guard, had ceased to worry about the line, and had simply slipped into the evening with her.

I wanted that again, wanted to feel that way again. And I wanted to make her feel as special tonight as she'd made me feel when she'd set that plate in front of me.

"I just cut this in… pieces, right?"

She gets up finally, coming around the other side of the counter, and when she takes the knife from my hands, her touch is delicate. She stands close, her hip lightly bumping mine, and I can smell her shampoo and some kind of perfume, spicy and just teasing my nose. She slices through the white cube on the cutting board easily, first in strips and then again across. "Here," she murmurs. "Like this."

Her slender fingers move gracefully, and I find myself entranced by her movements – even as she cuts something I'm somewhat terrified to eat. When she glances up at me, my throat goes dry, and we share a look that is not new. It's something we've shared many times before, something that has always remained unspoken, has always been backed away from.

For a moment, I wonder what she would do if this time I kissed her, if I swept down and placed my mouth over hers. Our brief kiss at Christmas last year has not satisfied my curiosity – I want to know how she tastes, want to know how it feels to have the warm pressure of her body against mine.

But I'm scared. And so I swallow and sweep the cubes of tofu into the hot pan, hearing it sizzle. I sprinkle in the spices and add the yogurt and the spinach, and she returns to her seat. Conversation again flows, and we drink wine and when we sit down to eat, and the moment, that brief moment is almost forgotten.

Almost.

Later, she sits back after finishing, patting her belly with satisfaction, a move I recognize as one of my own, and I smile. "Happy?"

"Very." She takes another sip of her wine, the second bottle of the night. "Thank you, Booth. That was incredibly delicious."

It is amazing how easily she can thrill me sometimes, and I sit back myself, admitting that for all my wariness, tofu isn't so bad. She'd eaten with relish, smiling and closing her eyes, and I realized I'd cook tofu for the rest of my life if it meant getting to watch her face as she enjoyed her meal.

I'm still watching her, and she sets her gaze on me, her face serious. "This was a great birthday."

I think that I blush a bit. "I was going to throw a party, have a bunch of people, but –"

"This was perfect."

I nod. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."

And it's there again, hanging between us. As often as it's appeared throughout our partnership, it rarely pops up twice in the same evening, and this time it's her who drops her eyes first, who pulls back and changes the subject.

Hours later, as I follow her to the door as she prepares to leave, I pause, again remembering the moment in the kitchen. Before I can come to any sort of decision, she's stepping into my arms, hugging me tightly, and I cannot fight the grin that stretches my mouth wide.

"You cooked me tofu," she says again, the amazement back in her voice. "You said you'd hate tofu."

"It wasn't so bad," I admit, squeezing her tightly.

She steps back, her eyes sparkling. "Maybe you'll consider a vegetarian lifestyle, then, if –"

"Not a chance, Bones," I say teasingly, and she smiles widely enough to match my own. A few strands of hair have fallen into her eyes, and without thinking, I brush them out of the way, and the smile slips from her face, the intensity back in her eyes. Swallowing, I let my hand drop.

"Happy Birthday."

And then it is her that's pushing up onto her toes, her lips brushing gently against mine. It is not a passionate crush, nor a wild flurry of tongues. Softly, without words, she is speaking to me, and I let my fingers settle for just a brief moment on her hip before she disappears through my doorway.


	2. Gently

_**A/N: okay, here's the second little installment. still not an "M" rated chapter, but it's coming, i swear. ;) hope you guys like it. this one's from Bren's POV. xoxo mia**_

**Gently, Without Words.**

Twigs crack and snap beneath our feet as we make our way along the trail. Booth is in front of me, the strong, broad muscles of his back moving beneath his t-shirt. It is a sunny day as we hike through the woods. It is the first of several outdoor weekend exercises suggested to us by our therapist as a way to "connect" as partners, to appreciate each other outside of the workplace.

It's somewhat ridiculous – I already appreciate Booth in ways that do not relate to our job, but when Lance Sweets had suggested this activity, I had kept my mouth closed. A hike had sounded...nice.

As I continue to watch him, his body nimble as he skirts large rocks and roots, I notice something else. He is favoring his left foot, just slightly. I study the way his hips rotate and shift, the way his upper body compensates for the uneven distribution of weight. He's in pain, I realize.

And for as much as people believe I'm oblivious, I am not.

I know him, know how he moves his body, how his mouth slips into a smile. I know how he takes his coffee, how he likes to dip his french fries in ketchup rather than pouring it on top. I know that he picks the raw onion off the side salad they bring him because he is afraid of having strong breath. The way he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans when he's unsure of himself or shy is something I now recognize in a heartbeat. I may not have always been as observant of the living as I am of the dead, but he's taught me to direct my skills in other directions, and so these are things I now see, that I know.

But I do not know his entire life. I do not know what he does when he leaves me, where he goes. I don't know if, on the nights we do not eat dinner with one another, if he goes home to eat alone, or if he calls friends. I do not know if he takes women to bed, or how often he calls his mother or what he wears when he sleeps. Maybe he wears nothing at all.

I direct my attention back to his body, now fully convinced that he's feeling pain – the way he's walking is more prominent the more difficult the trail becomes. My mouth is already open to ask him if he's hurting when I suddenly clamp it shut.

This is something I've learned from him – considering what I say before I say it.

Booth is proud – this is something I know as fact. He doesn't like to be seen as weak or in need of help, both physically and emotionally, and while I don't always agree with suffering through something to prove a point, I know he does. And so I consider my options, slowing slightly to have a better view of his steps.

He asks me a question, and I respond easily, my eyes still on him, my thoughts focused on something else entirely. I'm visualizing his x-rays, remembering the damage that had been evident in the bones of his feet. The left had been broken in more places than the right, the bones not always knitting back together perfectly.

The air is cool in the woods, and damp, the ground moist after a recent storm. Though I am unconvinced scientifically that barometric pressure effects previously broken bones or victims with arthritis, it seems to genuinely cause some discomfort for some people, and so I haven't ruled the possibility out entirely. It might be what's causing him to favor his foot this afternoon. I've certainly never noticed it bothering him before, regardless of the level of physical activity. Still, I know the skeleton and the muscles that move it – there is something wrong with his foot, and I'm betting that thing relates to the damage to his feet in the middle east.

I remember how I felt when I saw those x-rays. It had taken a moment to be able to connect that what I was looking at, while not unfamiliar, was the actually body of someone close to me, someone I cared for. I am accustomed, after all these years working with bones, to giving back voices and identities to those who have become nameless. What I'm not familiar with is examining people who have not lost those things, who still have a voice.

My throat had gone dry, and my chest had ached slightly, my muscles tensing. I'd stared at them for nearly an hour, studying each break in his body, each healed rib and metatarsal. It was like learning a secret, peeking inside somewhere I had not been allowed. But when I'd revealed to him what I now knew, I'd realized that I hadn't unearthed a secret. Instead, I'd learned only the first piece of information in a part of his life I'd hardly imagined. A life that, for the most part, is still a mystery to me.

I know he will not ask to slow down or stop, to turn around and head back early. And I also know if I mention his possible pain, he will fight me.

"Booth," I call suddenly, slowing down. "Can we stop for a minute?"

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at me. "You okay?"

"Yes," I say quietly. "I'm just… I'm a little tired."

The lie slips easily from my lips, and I plunk down on a nearby stump. His brow knits together, and he seems surprised. The trail is not difficult – despite his feet bothering him, he is not the slightest bit winded or run down.

"You sure you're okay, Bones?" he asks again.

"I just need to sit for a minute. I don't think I slept very well last night, is all."

He nods slowly, walking over to me, handing me the bottle of water he's been carrying. "Here."

I accept it gratefully; glad he's not asking any more questions. Truth is, I really hadn't slept that well. I'd been thinking about him, about our hike, about what it meant that we had to be instructed to do these kinds of things, that despite spending as much time together as we did, it was always under the heading of "work". Even now, out in the woods together, we are here because our therapist thinks we need to spend more time building our partnership and trust outside of work.

But I already trust him. I trust him with my life and wellbeing, with my family secrets and my personal moments. I don't need to build that on some psychology-ordered hike.

So what are we doing out here?

I scoot over a bit, allowing him to sit next to me on the stump, and hand him back the water. He takes a long drink, his head tipped back, and I sneak another look at him. He's an extremely attractive man, and while this is not news to him, I think he is unaware just how affecting it is. At the very least, I think he is unaware how much it stirs up feelings in me.

I dig in the small day pack I have with me, pulling out a sesame snack mix, offering some to him, and he smiles widely, popping some into his mouth.

"What are you doing tonight, Bones?"

"I might go into the lab," I say slowly, swallowing my own snack mix before speaking. "I have a skeleton I'm having trouble identifying."

"It's over a hundred years old," he groans, elbowing me. "Are you really in a hurry on that one?"

"It's my job," I say, somewhat miffed.

"Not on a Saturday night, it's not." He reaches for more snack mix, and I hand him the container. "C'mon, let's have dinner or something."

I consider this for several moments, tapping my fingers on my knee. I really _had_ planned on going to lab, and then maybe working on my novel when I got home. I had several articles I'd planned on reading as well, and I had plans to have lunch with Angela on Sunday, so really….

"C'mon," he presses. "My treat. Anywhere you want to go." He winks at me. "Sweets would approve."

I try to bite back a smile. He has this way, this tone he uses when he's trying to bend me to get his way, and I pray he never knows _how_ easy it is for him to sway me in one direction or another.

As a teenager in foster care, I did my best to avoid attention. I was teased for the mismatched and sometimes ill-fitting clothing I was left with, and the grades I received in school. At the very least, the unfashionable clothing I was left with hid my body and I was able to dodge most of the comments from boys concerning my figure. Some of them would try to pester me for help with their homework, to write papers for them. I refused. I was able to see through that façade even without well-developed social skills, and wasn't about to let them cut corners with a little bit of flattery.

But I trust Seeley Booth, and that, I believe is the difference. He could have easily, when partnered with me, chosen to keep our relationship one hundred percent professional, to do his job and to keep his distance. But Booth… he_ likes_ me. He enjoys my company, even when I don't understand his references or get his jokes. Even when it's inconvenient for him, he's stood up for me, has risked his job for me.

And so when he wheedles me about a dinner date, even when I know I should say no, I cannot help but cave under the slight pressure and the brightness of his smile.

"Okay, fine," I relent, making sure he knows that I'm giving in, not just agreeing. "But lets eat at my house instead of going out – we can order out."

He grins broadly, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans, but when he turns slightly, I see he is still favoring his foot.

"Ready to keep going?" he asks a little too brightly.

"Actually…." I say slowly, "Do you mind if we head back? I'm really just a little too tired for this today."

He shrugs, although I can see the relief in the way his shoulders relax, and the way he does not push. He would have hiked another ten miles without a word, but even if he does not realize exactly what I've done, his feet are grateful.

--

My feet fly over the pavement as I make my way around the corner back towards my building. Because I'd cut our hike short, my body had been aching for more exercise, and so I'd thrown on my running shoes after he'd pulled away, taking off through the city streets. I must have been carried away by my own thoughts, however, because when I glanced down at my watch, I realized it was dangerously close to when Booth was going to be at my apartment.

I give a quick wave to the doorman, skipping the elevator when I note what floor it's on, and race quickly up the stairs. They wind me a bit, and so it is because I'm doubled over, gasping for breath, that I miss that he is standing outside my door.

"Bones."

_Shit_.

"Hi," I gasp out, my hands on my hips. "Sorry. The time got away from me."

He looks at me strangely, walking towards me, a bag of takeout in his hand. "I thought you were tired… you went running?"

I blink for a moment, unsure what to do after being caught in a lie. "I got a second wind," I manage, walking towards my door, pulling my key from my shoelace.

"Uh huh."

He sounds unconvinced, but he doesn't say anything else, following me into my apartment. I push my hair off my forehead where it has stuck to the sweat, and roll my shoulders. "I'm going to take a really fast shower," I say quickly. "Can you get out plates and silverware?"

He nods, heading to the kitchen, and as I shower the sweat quickly from my body, I curse myself for getting caught. I hate being dishonest, and I hate even more that he thinks me dishonest.

I'm out in the kitchen in under ten minutes, wearing clean clothes, my hair sticking damply to my neck, and he's laid out steaming plates of delicious looking food. I notice he got a salad for me as well.

"That was fast," he murmurs, handing me a bottle of beer. "You weren't kidding."

"I'm hungry," I say with a smile. "It was good motivation."

"Must be from your run," he says, not meeting my eyes.

I follow him out into the living room, taking a seat on the couch next to him, and we eat silently for several moments before he finally looks up at me.

"Why did you lie to me?" he asks quietly. "Why did you tell me you were too tired and then an hour later you went on a run?"

I sigh, wondering what the best thing to do is. Resting my plate on my knees, I turn towards him slightly, studying his face. He looks hurt.

"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I wasn't trying to lie to you."

"But you did."

I figure, at this point, that if I'm not honest I'll just dig a deeper hole. "I knew your feet were hurting you," I admit.

"You what?"

I can't read the tone in his voice, and so I sit silently for a moment before answering. "I saw you were favoring your foot, and I knew you wouldn't say anything."

He seems to consider this for a moment, setting his fork down on his plate. "My feet were fine."

I shrug. "You were adjusting your weight to keep more off your left foot. I'm assuming the weather was stressing the points where it was broken in the past – it's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"I'm not," he says tensely.

Frustrated, I stand up in a huff. "Look, whether you want to admit it to me or not, I can read you, alright? And you were in pain hiking. And I also know you would have hiked thirty miles if I'd asked you to, and not said a word, all the while being uncomfortable. So I made a choice to turn around, and I knew if I told you I was tired you'd go. It isn't a big deal."

Now it is Booth who is studying me, his eyes shining as he meets my eyes. He sets down his plate as well, standing, and for a moment I think he's going to leave, that he's going to walk right out my door without even a backwards glance.

But he steps towards me, tipping my chin up to meet his eyes, and then leans down, hesitantly at first, brushing his lips over mine. He doesn't say thank you, and he certainly doesn't admit that he was relieved when I'd had us turn around. But his eyes reflect his gratitude, and he kisses me again, this time on the cheek, his lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

We both sit again, picking up our plates, and in moments we are laughing, recalling something funny Hodgins had said in front of Cullen earlier in the week. We are at ease again, the trust restored, and as he pulls my own feet into his lap, I catch the sparkle in his eyes and know my message, gently, without words, was received.


	3. Sweetly

_**A/N: okay, next one, my dears. hope you're enjoying these little peeks into what i feel they are to each other. i'm certainly having fun writing them. also, thanks, sweet jamie, for putting up with my self-flagellation and concerns. love you. xoxo**_

**Sweetly, Without Words**

The television flickers across from me, baseball players moving silently across the screen as I sip slowly at the glass in my hand. Several glances at the clock tell me it is close to ten o'clock.

Sighing, I let my head fall back against the armchair I'm sitting in. I've spent the last several hours trying not to think about the fact that my partner is currently at a dinner being presented with some big award for her work, our entire team of squints along with her.

But not me. Because when I'd asked her about it, she'd told me, casual as ever, that she was bringing a date.

Barely glancing up from her desk, she'd mentioned that she assumed I'd find the discussions going on throughout the evening "boring" and so she was taking an anthropology professor she'd been chatting with online.

And I try to tell myself that when she said I'd be "bored" that she didn't really mean, "you're too stupid to follow what they're saying, Booth."

I rub the slight stubble on my jaw, the white uniforms on the ball players making them look almost like ghosts in the darkness of my living room. I could care less if I understood what they were talking about all evening – I love the idea of her being honored for all the work she does, of watching her accept yet another award as she tries desperately to stifle her dazzling smile and maintain her unflappable, professional aura. I love watching others recognize how amazing she is, of seeing what all her hard work means to the rest of the world.

But I'm just a cop, not a doctor or a scientist, and so I'd simply nodded and shoved my hands into my pockets. And when I'd turned away, I'm fairly sure Angela had seen the disappointment and the hurt on my face that she'd found someone else to escort her into the room tonight. Her friend has said nothing, but her eyes had spoken volumes. I can only hope she kept it to herself.

And so I've spent the last several hours eating leftover takeout from the fridge for dinner and knocking back a glass of scotch while telling myself that it's ridiculous to care that she didn't ask me there tonight. It doesn't mean she doesn't care about me, or that I'm not still her partner, or that she doesn't still spend most of her free time with me and what the hell is one night anyway in the history of our friendship…..?

Sighing, I'm about to get up when my phone rings. Glancing at the display, I see it's her, and I pause. Is she calling to tell me about her date? I wouldn't put it past her, I really wouldn't. While she's definitely improved in her ability to read others and their moods since we first met, she's still often annoyingly, frustratingly clueless. I'm not sure I can handle a recap of Doctor Wonderful.

But something could be wrong, and so I flip open the phone quickly.

She doesn't mention the date she's just been on, nor does she sound panicked in any way. She does, however, insist I come to the Jeffersonian with no explanation, and I grow more and more frustrated. She's being deliberately obtuse. Finally agreeing, I punch the button on the top of the remote, and the game on screen winks out.

Now I just have to figure out if and what kind of game Temperance Brennan is playing.

--

The museum is mostly silent by the time I arrive, and I move quickly through the underground parking garage, swiping my badge at several points along the way to the lab. Walking inside, she is nowhere to be seen, and I peek in her office, the door open. She must be here.

"Bones?"

I scan the main area again slowly, wondering if I've somehow missed her. Sometimes, when I come in late at night, she has headphones in her ears, the music moving her through her work, and she does not hear me arrive.

Nothing. Digging in the pocket of my jeans I pull out my phone, about to call her when I hear my name. Startled, I turn around.

She is walking slowly down the hallway, a simple black dress hugging her form as she moves towards me. I have never seen her in a long dress before, and the skirt is not overly full, but it does swirl a bit around her legs. It dips low between her breasts, exposing a strip of white skin. She looks old-movie elegant.

"Hi," I breathe, somewhat flustered. In contrast, I'm simply wearing jeans and an old faded t-shirt, and I feel, as I have so many times this evening, inadequate all of a sudden.

She smiles winningly, surprising me, and I see she has a gigantic, heavy flashlight in her hand. What on earth is she up to?

"How was… how was the thing tonight?" I ask tensely, unsure what to say.

She shrugs dismissively. "It was fine. One speaker was very interesting." She pauses. "It went too long for my tastes, however. And there were too many people there."

I nod slowly. "How was your date?"

She tilts her head curiously, studying me, and I suddenly feel as if I'm under her microscope. "Who?"

"The doctor you took." _You know, the guy you brought instead of me._

"Oh, him. He was fine. He's writing a paper on some of my findings while I was in Peru over the winter holidays. I think he thought it was a good time to interview me, however. I wasn't really in the mood."

What she does next startles me – she reaches out and clasps my hand in hers. "Come on."

I frown, despite a small thrill running through me. "Where are we going?"

"I have something I want to show you."

I hesitate, smiling. "You aren't taking me somewhere to brain me with that huge flashlight, are you?"

She laughs. "Booth. Don't be ridiculous."

With that, I follow her willingly down the hallway until we're making our way through the dark corridors of the museum.

"Bones," I whisper. "What _are_ we doing?"

She clicks on the flashlight, her fingers still warmly tangled in mine. The flashlight sweeps the floor, broad ovals of light highlighting our steps as she pulls me through different corridors. We stop finally in front of a set of remains and artifacts, and she lifts the light like a spot.

"Did you know these are some of the oldest remains found on the North American continent?"

I shake my head no. Truth is, for as much as I've been at the Jeffersonian, I realize I've actually never _been _to the museum, as a guest.

She starts talking, slowly, pointing out the different items used for cooking and hunting, explaining why certain markers on bone and facial structures led her to her identification. She explains carbon dating and several other methods in dating an artifact or a body.

And it's… fascinating -- and not really hard to follow at all. I hardly realize how entranced I've been before she finally takes a breath, studying me quietly.

"I didn't… bore you did I?" she asks.

There's that word again. "I followed you," I mumble. "If that's what you're asking."

"It's not," she says carefully. "I was asking if you found it interesting. I can't always tell, you know…" She trails off for a second, her eyes lowered, and then she finally looks me in the face. "When I talk about these things, when I explain my findings in a case – I can't always tell if you care about the details or not. So I don't want to… drone on and on."

"Oh." I feel instantly guilty. "Of course it wasn't boring. In fact… I found it really fascinating."

Part of me wants to admit that she could read me the back of a cereal box and I'd sit and listen.

"Are you going to show me more stuff?" I ask, as a sort of peace offering. Not only do I want to spend more time with her, I find I'm liking the way she explains things, the way her eyes gleam when she talks about survival and how innovative some of these designs are. I'm actually the exact opposite of bored. I'm captivated.

She seems surprised and more than a little pleased by my question, not even scolding me for my use of the word "stuff", which she finds to be ambiguous and nondescript, and she leads me to another room, explaining each exhibit as we move throughout the corridor. Each set of remains and artifacts excites her in a different way, and her cheeks are becoming more flushed, her voice more animated. I joke with her, pointing out things she has not explained with questions of my own. The light fabric of her dress hugs her as she moves, and jewelry winks in her ears and gleams around her wrist.

And all the while, her hand still remains in mine.

We reach the end of the wing, and she pauses. I don't want to say goodnight and go back to my apartment alone, once again sitting in front of the television or tangled in my sheets by myself. I want to keep listening to the sound of her voice, and I try desperately to think of some excuse – a late cup of coffee at the diner, or a drink somewhere. It's hard to think where we could go, with me in jeans and her in a beautiful dress.

"Why did you do all this?" I ask her slowly.

She studies me again. "All what? I just got a flashlight, Booth." She smiles. "And gave you a little tour."

"Yes, but what made you think of it?"

She is quiet for a moment, and my stomach flips a little. I can't explain why I'm nervous, but I am, every nerve beginning to tingle slightly.

Looking at me finally, she sighs. "Something Angela said to me earlier."

_I knew it. Of course she didn't keep that to herself._

I open my mouth to speak but she cuts me off. "She asked me why I didn't take you tonight, and I realized that it really hadn't dawned on my to do so."

I nod. _Because I'm not that type of guy – not the type you take to an academic dinner._

She sighs, her earrings swaying slightly as she moves her head. "I didn't want to go to this dinner, so I guess I figured you wouldn't want to, either. I thought you'd have no interest in it."

I'm not sure what to say. To admit that I was hurt and felt rejected would possibly tell her more than I am willing to admit to. "You didn't have to feel obligated, Bones. It's fine."

"She said you looked hurt," she says bluntly, and I curse Angela a little. I feel put on the spot, not sure which way to look or what words to use.

"I was fine," I murmur. "I'm not a scientist, I understood."

She nods thoughtfully. "I know that. But I just…" She takes a deep breath. "I just wanted to make sure that you didn't think I didn't invite you because I didn't _want_ you there." She sneaks a smile at me. "In truth, it was boring, Booth. And I wished you were there. I was sorry you weren't next to me." She snickers. "You would have had something to say about the hairpiece of the man who announced me, I know it."

I smile, despite myself. "Bones, really, I just…"

"I never realized that I had everyone but you coming, when you're one of the most important parts of what I do," she says suddenly.

I'm embarrassed, and more than a little thrilled by what she's just said.

She sighs, glancing at her feet. "You might not realize this, but… you _have_ had an effect on the way I work, even when you're not involved, even when it's not a murder investigation."

I'm stunned. "What?" I croak.

This time it is her who blushes. "I just… I think I look at a body a little differently now, that's all. I think sometimes I might…" She smiles. "Make intuitive leaps."

I burst out laughing, and she pulls her hand from mine and claps it over my mouth suddenly. My eyes widen in response, and I wonder if we're going to get in trouble.

"I'm allowed to be here, I just…" She leans closer, whispering. "I don't want a bunch of security guards suddenly surrounding us."

I nod slowly, and she slowly lowers her fingers from my mouth.

"Thank you, Bones."

She nods, the other hand holding the flashlight now lowered, leaving us in near darkness, just a light spot on the floor. "Thanks for coming with me." She hesitates. "I'm sorry, Booth, if I made you feel like you didn't belong with us tonight. We're the center, after all -- you and me."

I smile broadly. "The center."

I have kissed her several times now, since Christmas in her office, slight, friendly brushes of my lips that I have not analyzed for fear of what I might find. The more often it occurs, the less "friendly" it seems. And I want to kiss her now, in thanks and appreciation, and also because she just looks so damn beautiful.

She starts a little when my mouth sweeps lightly against hers, but she doesn't pull away. And when I meet her eyes, about to speak and suggest a cup of coffee, she hasn't stepped back at all. Her eyes glimmer in the near dark, and her breath brushes my lips lightly; she is still that close. I feel caught, like a magnet is pulling me towards her, and our eyes meet.

I hang there for several moments, my brain racing along next to my heart. I want so badly to really kiss her, to taste the inside of her mouth, to hold her more tightly. But it seems like once that happens, there's no explaining it away, no reason that I can give for why I touched her with such a sexual, passionate intent.

But she reaches for my hand again, her fingers grazing my palm, and I don't think, I just react. I step that extra inch towards her and I open my mouth and press it against hers. And I do all those things I've never allowed myself to do before. I run my tongue over the silky lining of her mouth, the pearl of her teeth. I feel the velvet slide of her own tongue against mine, and my whole body reacts, pulling her closer. She drops the flashlight with a large _thunk_ and it turns off, plunging us into darkness.

And it is the dark that hides all my worries and questions. It disguises who we are, and the fact that we are colleagues and partners and all the questions that come along with it. In the darkened hallway, we are just two people, two people who have sat next to one another for years, who have rescued one another from danger and who have pulled one another from the wreckage of other people's messy lives. We are two people who share a meal almost every day, who know the mannerisms and subtle movements of the other. Right now, I'm just a man who has wanted to kiss a woman for several years. And so I do.

And she's kissing me back, pressing closer to me, allowing her free hand that is not still holding mine to slip over my shoulder, for her fingers to tangle in my hair. She tastes like wine from dinner and something slightly spicy, and my knees start to feel so rubbery that I waltz a few steps back until I'm against the wall, holding her firmly against me.

For a brief moment, I think back to earlier this evening, to my feelings of rejection and not being the man she wanted by her side tonight, and sweetly, without words, she reassures me.


	4. Wildly

**_A/N: i'm baaaack. sorry, folks. i've been crazy busy the last few weeks. i was out of town two out of four weekends, and i started school again, so i've barely had a moment to myself. i barely eeked out time to actually watch the season premiere. but. i missed you guys, so here is a another little oneshot for this collection. thank j for her help with this one... i was a big whiny baby who needed reassurance. ;) xoxo_**

**Wildly, Without Words.**

For the most part, my irritability today is due to my publisher. He has been on my case for a number of weeks regarding my newest book, and I've become more and more frustrated since he entered my office.

First of all, I resent this man telling me how to write my novel. In the past, I've been an extremely successful author without his help, and I've read the man's notes and emails – he has spelling and grammatical errors on a regular basis that I find incredibly distracting. Not only that, but one of the scenes in question happens to be a sex scene between Kathy and Andy, and I'm not convinced he's qualified to give an opinion on such matters. If he's had sex before, I'd be surprised.

Secondly… I don't like being told what to do.

Still, I find myself biting my tongue because this man does, in some respects, control whether or not my book is published. Also, I have a set of remains on one of the tables that I'm anxious to get to, and I know Booth is on his way to meet with me over my findings. Of which I have none, because Martin Burgess will not stop talking or leave my office.

"Dr. Brennan," he pesters, tugging at his tie. "You aren't _listening_ to me. I'm telling you that it is not simply the _scene_ at the end of chapter five. It is the book in its entirety. It lacks… passion."

I frown. "I disagree."

He sighs, and I see a bead of sweat glisten near his forehead and slip down under the rim of his glasses. Martin is in his mid-forties, unmarried and generally not very accommodating. But this is the first time he's actually had a problem with the _contents_ of one my books. Before it was always my unwillingness to pose for a sexier jacket cover, or do a longer book tour.

"Dr. Brennan, to me…the case in this book seems flat, uninspired. It doesn't seem realistic at all, and the chemistry between Kathy and Andy seems fairly non-existent. In the past, I believe these books have been successful because they were new. The idea of identifying people from their bones was exciting to people. Now… well, now, it just seems trite without something else to carry along the story. From what I can see, the characters are essentially emotionless."

"What did you just say?" a voice says tightly from the doorway.

This time it is my turn to sigh. My partner doesn't just sound angry. He sounds furious.

Martin turns from his spot on my couch towards the agent towering in the doorway. Booth's body language is definitely full of warning. He isn't shouting or throwing a scene, but his jaw is taut, and his eyes are murderous. It even make me squirm a bit in my seat. Martin looks trapped somewhere between irritation with the situation, and simple terror.

"Booth," I say calmly. "I'll be with you in a few minutes."

Of course, he pays me no attention. His eyes remains fixed on his target, and he enteres the room slowly, approaching where Martin sits on the couch. At this point, I think Hitler would be intimidated.

"Did I hear you call her novels _trite?_" he asks softly.

To give my publisher a bit of credit, he attempts to maintain some semblance of control. "Agent Booth, is it?" he asks quickly and nervously. The two had met once before, at a book signing when Booth had dragged me away for a case. They'd had words. Booth, of course, had won.

"That's right," Booth says, his voice low and full of warning. "Her partner." He puts his hands on his hips. "And you don't know what you're talking about."

"Booth!" I say sharply, standing up. "This is a private conversation."

"Bones," he says, turning towards me impatiently. "He's full of crap. Your stories aren't trite. And the cases aren't _boring._ What, does he need _more_ blood and guts?" He narrows his eyes. "More human suffering, perhaps?"

"Agent Booth –"

"Be quiet," he orders Martin, barely glancing in his direction.

"Booth!" I exclaim. I can't believe how ridiculous and defensive he's being about _my _books. And _rude. _My publisher is getting red in the face at having been shushed like a child, and Booth's adam's apple is working overtime. "Stop it," I warn him.

Apparently, he's angered Martin enough to make him forget his fear. Leaping to his feet, the smaller man squares off with my partner, his nostrils flaring. "Excuse me, but this was a private meeting between me and my client. She is a writer, and _I _ am a publisher. You, last time I checked, work for the FBI and are not connected to the literary world in any way –"

_Oh my god._

For a moment, I fear for Martin's life. A vein has started to pop out on Booth's forehead, and his fists clench. "Oh, so you're saying I'm not _qualified_ to have an opinion?"

"I'm saying this is none of your business."

"Damn straight it's my business! She's my partner!"

"She is not your _literary _partner, she is –"

This is insane. I wonder briefly if this is the kind of frustration we cause Dr. Sweets when we argue, but quickly turn my attention back to the argument in front of me -- something that is now an argument because Seeley Booth is a possessive, alpha male. Again.

My own temper flames. "Booth, back off," I say coolly, trying to maintain some sense of decorum. I set my hands on his arms, feeling the muscles tensed and bulging beneath my fingers. It is if he is ready to attack. "I can take care of myself," I mutter.

He looks at me incredulously. "Bones, the guy just said your writing had no emotion and no feeling! He called it _trite._ And I'm supposed to not get upset??"

I step in front of him and face Martin. "I apologize," I say evenly, trying my best to keep any amount of anger or hurt out of my voice and to appear unaffected. I think it is most likely the best way to handle the current situation.

"Dr. Brennan," he says sharply, clearly miffed. "I'm leaving. And unless you rework some of the things we've discussed, I can't possibly publish this novel."

I feel a slight surge of panic. I don't really understand what it is he _wants_ from me. Again trying to remain in control, I look my publisher in the eye. Booth's hand falls on my shoulder, and I can feel the tension radiating off of him in waves.

_He definitely wants to shoot Martin._

"Mr. Burgess," I say, my voice steady. "The case I used in the book is based on a real case. The people are loosely based on real individuals. The cases are factually correct, there is both a love scene as well as several disagreements between characters. Is that or is that not displaying emotion? If that's not what you wanted, I'm not sure what is.--"

Martin has clearly had enough. He reaches for his briefcase, then straightens up to look me in the face.

"Dr. Brennan, if I have to explain what I mean by 'add more passion, more emotion', more _anything_, I'm not sure you have much passion or emotion yourself. Frankly, I've always gotten the impression that you're as cold as your books, but they were new enough to be successful. But this?" he asks, holding up my manuscript. "This is about as interesting and passionate as this conversation."

I don't even have a few seconds to process his words, because Booth reaches right around me, grabs Martin by the collar of his blue button-up shirt, and hurls him across the room.

My eyes bulge and I let out a squeak. I am both horrified by my partner's actions and sick to my stomach at my publisher's words, and as I hurry over to Martin, I send Booth a murderous look. "What the hell do you think you're _doing?_" I shout. "Are you _insane??_ That's my _publisher!_"

Booth is approaching the two of us rapidly as I kneel by Martin, who looks fairly stunned, rubbing his head where it has clunked against the wall. He shrinks back as the shadow of my tall partner covers us, and I am nearly shaking with my anger.

"He said he wanted more 'passion' in this conversation," Booth says flatly. "I thought I'd help him out."

"By _attacking him??_"

He reaches around me, grabs my publisher again by the shirt, and hauls him to his feet. Leaning closer, he speaks softly, his eyes fixed on Martin's. "Don't you ever," he murmurs dangerously, "disrespect her again, you got that? This woman has more passion and emotion in one finger that you have in that entire body of yours. She works harder for people she's never met than anyone I know, and she's an incredible writer." He releases the shaking man's shirt from his grip and pats him on the shoulder, slapping an insincere smile on his face. "Now get out of here."

Both furious and most likely humiliated, Martin pushes Booth out of the way and shoves my manuscript into my chest, stalking past me towards the door, grabbing his briefcase from the floor on the way out.

I am so angry I can barely see straight. I look down at the manuscript in my hands, the one that apparently lacks passion or emotion, and I suddenly feel a surge of both. Slamming the heavy stack of papers into my partner's chest, I grab my headphones from my desk, stalking towards the door.

"Bones!"

"I have a body to look at," I snap. "So leave me the hell alone."

--

"Bones."

"I'm not speaking to you," I mutter, lifting the wrist of what had once been a young woman gently in my own hands. There is a strange scoring on the bone, and I lean closer to get a better look.

"That guy was a jerk."

I say nothing as he hovers behind me, setting the wrist down gently and moving up towards the shoulder. In truth, I am having a difficult time concentrating, but I don't want him to know that. I am still angry with him over his little display of testosterone in my office, and am also worried about my contract with Martin. And, a part of me admits, hurt by my publisher's words. Is he right? Is my book flat and emotionless? I try to think about the paths the characters have taken, wondering if I missed something very, very important.

I suddenly have a headache.

"He had no right to talk to you like that. He doesn't even know what –"

I spin around, grabbing his arm, not missing the slight look of horror on his face that I am touching his shirt with the same glove that has just been holding fresh remains. Still, he allows me to drag him down from the platform and back into my office, where I let go and yank down the blinds on my windows with a sharp snap.

"Okay, you're mad. But you shouldn't be mad a _me,_ because I _defended_ you to that asshole –"

"I didn't _need _you to defend me!" I say through clenched teeth. "I'm an adult, Booth, and I'm perfectly capable of dealing with my own business associates! But you threw him across the room! This isn't some fight in the schoolyard. I have a _contract_ with that man."

"Well, you shouldn't," he huffs. "He clearly doesn't respect you, and you don't need to be doing business with someone like that, nor should you have to put up with –"

"He's right," I suddenly say quietly.

He pauses, his brown knitting. "What?"

I plop down on the couch, dropping my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes wearily. "He's probably right. I doubt the book has much passion." I take a deep breath. "Wouldn't be the first time I've heard something like that, anyway."

I feel his weight drop down next to me, and his hand falls hesitantly on my shoulder, but I shrug him off. I'm still annoyed with him.

"Bones, I'm sure the book is great. Your last two novels were amazing. _I_ read them. And you know me -- I don't read books."

"You can't do that," I interrupt, changing the subject. "You can't just _throw _a man around because you don't like what he said to me. I have a professional relationship with Martin, whether you like him or not. I'll be lucky if he doesn't try to press charges."

"Hah!" he scoffs. "I doubt he'd even try. He was shaking in his boots."

I sigh in irritation, snapping off my gloves and tossing them in the garbage by my desk. I am about to open my mouth again to continue telling him why his machismo is unwelcome in my lab when he surprises me, taking my hand.

"Bones," he murmurs quietly. "I'm sorry if I upset you. But I'm sure as hell not sorry that I told that jackass off, because he couldn't be more wrong. And," he says, holding up a finger when I go to speak, "_I_ know you. And you have plenty of passion." He smiles. "Maybe more than you know what to do with," he jokes. "And it burns me up to hear someone questioning that." He looks me in the eye. "No matter what you might say, I know that comment hurt your feelings. But he didn't know what the hell he was talking about, okay? You aren't cold – you're one of the warmest people I know."

"But what if he's right about the book?" I ask weakly. "He might be right."

He sighs, shoving his hands through his hair, reclining back against the arm of the couch, facing me. "Maybe he's right about the book."

My eyes widen in surprise.

"But the book isn't you. And he's dead wrong about you," he says, squeezing my fingers in his. "He had _no_ right to say those things about you, you got that? Because you, Temperance Brennan, are full of passion. You just pick and choose who to share it with." He grins. "Which makes me feel pretty lucky."

I puff out my cheeks, unsure how to respond. I feel a warmth spread across my face, and realize I'm flushed by his compliment, and by the time I let out my breath, I'm smiling, too. Ducking my head, I bite my lip. "Booth…"

"I know, I know. You still don't want me to hit anybody."

I feel warm everywhere. I am suddenly aware of the subtle scent of his cologne, and I feel his knee pressing against my thigh where he's turned on the sofa. Lifting my head, I see the strong line of his jaw and my heart flutters. I swallow, nervous all of a sudden. He is looking at me in that way, that way that makes me feel like I am the only person in the world; that makes me feel dizzy. I suddenly realize that despite my irritation and his presumption, he did what he did because he _cares_ about me, because he wants me to understand how much he cares.

And that in picking up Martin and flinging him across my office, he'd said more with one gesture than I'd said in my entire book. Wildly, without words, he'd spoken to me.

I stand up suddenly, dropping my hands to my hips, pacing a few steps. He's insufferable, really, and his reaction had been completely uncalled for. And yet, in a way… I am pleased, and more than a little flattered.

He glances up at me, clearly waiting to see if I am going to forgive him now or if he will have to drag acceptance out of me over dinner, his treat. I consider my options for a moment, of a few choice words I can add to ensure that he never does something like that again.

But I hear his voice again in my head, saying he's lucky, and instead I suddenly swoop down, cupping his face in my hands and kissing him deeply. His mouth drops open in surprise at the feel of my lips against his, and I take advantage, letting my tongue sweep inside, tangling with his own. He returns my kiss with enthusiasm, until I feel rubbery in the knees and ankles and start to worry I'll no longer be able to stand. He reaches for my waist, trying to pull me into his lap, but I break away, jumping back, my face flushed as I look at him breathlessly.

"Say you'll never do that again," I demand.

He sets his jaw, but his eyes are playful, his cheeks flushing pink from my kiss. "No."

I sigh, turning on a heel and heading towards the door, returning to my remains.

"Bones!"

I pause, the corners of my mouth twitching slightly. "Yes?" I say, not turning around.

"What was that for?"

I do look over my shoulder at that moment, meeting his eyes, and I see his own broad smile. "Oh," I murmur. "Just... showing a little passion."

I hear his laugh echo I walk down the hallway. "Atta girl!" he calls.

By the time I again reach the platform, my smile is stretching my face, my eyes are sparkling, and I feel anything but cold.


End file.
